O'Neill's Promise
by Dreams-of-Skies
Summary: When it gets too much, there are some things you promise yourself...This story is a short character study. Some mild swearing and violence hence Teens rating.


**O'Neill's Promise**

The door creaked open, the sudden influx of light blinding him. He didn't have the chance to see the boot coming at him but he felt the glancing blow, rolling instinctively. He heard the clattering of his meal hitting the floor.

"Enjoy."

The door clanked shut again and he could hear the laughing voices of the men as they left him stuck in this hell-hole. Feeling around his fingers found the edge of the mug. Course, it had been dropped. Despair crashed through him as he realised that yet again he would be sucking droplets of water from where he could catch the drips. He wiped his fingers over and over around the rim of the mug. Then he was scrabbling for anything left in the bottom – just one more drop would be enough. Even laying his palms in the dampness and licking them clean – anything to get some liquid back into him.

The food was rotten. Same thing every day for the past twelve, at least for the twelve he could remember. But then, screwing with your head was one of their favourite games. It was just as likely that he'd been here for a month as twelve days, if it was even that many. But it was something. And hell, he'd eaten worse…the bread was dry but he needed to eat. The last meal they had brought him had been so rotten he hadn't been able to eat any of it. At least some of the fruit had juice still in it – those pieces he could he squeezed against his teeth, sucking them dry. The rest he left on the plate – inedible mess that it was.

His head was pounding. He was sure he had a concussion. Probably more than that – the beating had been hard, nonsensical. No questions – guess they had gotten tired of him repeating his name, rank and serial number over and over again. Everything hurt, even the roots of his hair. It was taking everything he had left just to sit still. There was nothing left in him to throw up and the exhaustion coupled with the dehydration was taking its toll. At least there was no blood loss to contend with, not this time.

He leaned his head back to rest against the wall, keeping his eyes closed. He thought of his wife then, in the darkness, when he was alone. Only ever when he was alone, where he could be honest with himself. He dreamed of her. Dreamed of getting home to her. He knew she believed him dead by now, knew that he was declared as missing in action. Hell, they had probably declared him as dead by now. He damn well felt dead.

The new jailer was a sadistic son of a bitch. He had used nothing but his fists. Each blow had overlapped just a little when applied to his back, chest and abdomen. He'd been trussed up like a human beat bag, his toes barely touching the floor. And the jailer had laid in. Not one blow had landed on his face. Not one blow to his arms or legs. The man had been exceptionally skilled to have beaten every square inch but broken no bones. Tomorrow, he had been promised, a thick leather strap would be used. They had wafted it in his face to show him, made it crack with the force they had swung it. And he had been told that whilst his body had been the choice today, tomorrow the jailer would work on his legs. He couldn't count how many times he had fainted. And as he lay there on the stone floor, unable to even wrap his arms around himself – it hurt just to brush his fingers against his own skin. And he was tired. So damn tired.

Goddamn…no matter what. They beat, starve…doesn't matter. He knew he'd get out eventually. And whatever the hell happened after this…whatever it was…he could stand this. He would get out of here. He would survive everything they did to him. All of it. Every blow. Every single blow. The darkness. The spoilt food. The lack of water. Everything. Anything. However long he'd been here.

He was drifting. Reality no longer mattered. Pain had become such a constant that he didn't care about new cut, a new bruise, the split on his lip that just wouldn't heal. Sleep was no longer an option – he would fall unconscious as soon as he was left alone now, dreaming only of the endless hours at the hands of his captors. Only one thought kept him from going crazy – he was going to see his wife again. He was going to kiss her one more time. Smell her hair. Feel the lines of her face with his fingers. If he died within the hour after, he would see her again.

They'd gotten pretty pissed at him this time too. They'd thought he was so beaten he was weak and useless. They'd untied him, left him in the middle of the floor, covered in dirt and sweat and his own blood. But they had been wrong. One moment of inattention was all he had needed. One moment to draw breath, to centre all the pain, all the rage into one movement. Just to get up. Get up and hit something. Fight back.

He'd managed to knock one unconscious, he could remember that. And the other guy? He'd hit him, over and over, even when the stock of the rifle had been bounced off his head he had kept pummelling his fist into the face of his tormentor, growling and snarling like an animal. They had dragged him off the guard, the dead guard, the man he had beaten to death with his fists and his rage. Then they had beaten him til he'd screamed, over and over. Thrown water over him to wake him from a faint. Beaten him again. Wrenched his knee. Dislocated his shoulder. Thrown him back into the tiny dark space that was his cell. But he'd gotten one of them.

He sat there, laughing. Crying. Tears pouring down his face whilst his body throbbed from the agony, laughing so much he though he would cough up blood – his throat so raw all ready from screaming. And while he laughed he made himself a promise: Never to leave anyone behind. Before it had been a choice. Now, it was more. Now he knew exactly what he had to protect his people from. Now it was part of him. Never leave my people behind…

Years later. His wife was gone. His son, the light in his life, had come and gone. He had retired twice and still the country to whom he had given so much would not let him go. So he went. He went back to the sand dunes and the people – including the boy he had become so fond of last time - and the slightly geeky young man he had left there. He went back and found himself in a new world, where the rules were rewritten within seconds by an enemy he had never imagined would be so vast.

He stood there, at the base of the ramp. Beside him was the young intelligent captain, the Jaffa who had saved their lives and promised himself to their cause. And he stood there, the geek, looking up at their transport, grief and pain in his eyes. They both looked at it, then at each other. And he saw it in those young, innocent blue eyes – I will not leave her behind. He saw it and knew it, that old friend. He felt it flash deep inside – the rage, uncurling within like a sleeping tiger, freshly awoken and roaring for blood.

You never leave your people behind.

Well, Apophis may have stolen away those people. But O'Neill had made himself a promise. And he was going to keep it…and bring hell along for the ride.


End file.
